


The Society

by SunlitGarden



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Dark Betty Cooper, Dark Jughead Jones, F/M, Happily Ever After?, Murder, Not an actual "soulmates" au more like yandere, Obsessive Behavior, POV Betty Cooper, Prep School, Protectiveness, Psychopaths In Love, Recruitment, Smut, Stonewall Prep (Riverdale), attempted hazing, dark bughead, the couple that slay together stay together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitGarden/pseuds/SunlitGarden
Summary: A short story on Mr. Chipping's desk convinces Betty that she needs the author in her life and at Stonewall Prep. With enough research and charm, he should be easy enough to convince. Once she meets Forsythe Pendleton Jones III, however, she realizes he's so much more than a brilliant writer: he's her soulmate.Determined to change the world for the better, she educates him on their elite Society, prepping him to join them. In Jughead's arms, though, Betty feels a whole new kind of salvation.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 53
Kudos: 173
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a dark Prep School AU where the characters are definitely intense sooooo yes hope you enjoy. Heathen mode activate!

Betty slinks into Mr. Chipping’s office with the latest issue of the Blue and Gold folded carefully around her fingers so the ink doesn’t bleed.

“Mr. Chipping, can I get your sign-off on this exposé?” He doesn’t even look up, completely immersed in his reading. Never one to resist a good story, Betty drags the papers he’s already marked into position so she can peruse them herself.

_From a distance, or from the window of a train rushing by, it presents itself like so many other small towns all over the world. Safe. Decent. Innocent. But that’s only how people want it to be. Or they think it is because they’re young and don’t know any better – or they’re old and they don’t want to know any better._

_At a certain point, though, you look close enough and you start to see the shadows underneath the town. And sometimes...the shadows take over._

Betty’s eyes widen, her breath hitching in her chest. Her heartbeat thuds anxiously in her ears while her palms burn for impact. It’s like the words have crawled right out of her diary and are burrowing under her skin.

_And you’re living in this place you don’t recognize anymore. And you’re feeling a lot of things, but safe isn’t one of them._

“Miss Cooper. What can I do for you?”

The shock is reminiscent of stumbling out of a nightmare. Momentarily displaced, anxiety clusters in Betty’s chest. The room swims in and out of focus and there isn’t time to pretend to be anything other than hypnotized.

“Who wrote this?”

Mr. Chipping removes his reading glasses and recites the name like he has it memorized. “Forsythe Pendelton Jones III.”

“It’s… breathtaking.” Maybe that’s not the word she should use about a story, but her extensive vocabulary is slipping through the cracks in her brain, swallowed by reflections of smudged red lipstick and a flashing _Unknown Caller_ on her phone’s ID. Anything and everything could become menacing, no matter how innocent it seemed.

Mr. Chipping stacks the masterpiece on his desk. “I’m thinking of recruiting him.”

“To teach?”

“No, for our Poets Society. Forsythe is seventeen.”

Incredulous, Betty glances at the paper. As Yearbook Editor and the head of the Blue and White, she thought she knew everyone–their best sides and their worst. Their school doesn’t have any Forsythe whose thoughts can cut to the bones of humanity. Mr. Chipping goes on about the stories, the contest, and this story not winning, so she cuts him off. “You have to get him.”

Surprised, Mr. Chipping smiles. “You think so?”

“He’s a prodigy. He completes–”

_Me._

“The Poets Society,” she finishes with resolve. They’ve needed someone like him: someone who navigates dark underbellies with ease and dismantles arbitrary structure with enough awareness to put society on the right track to being whole and new again.

“All right. I’ll go get him. He doesn’t have a typical Stonewall Pedigree, but he does seem promising.” Betty nods reverently. “You’ll support me on this?”

She cradles the paper against her chest. “Absolutely.”

Apparently, Mr. Jones isn’t as eager to join their fold as they are to have him. He rejects Mr. Chipping via email, then in person.

They need a new strategy. Mr. Chipping clearly can’t be trusted to lure him in on merit and reputation.

Betty sneaks through a few databases to get information on the teenager without any social media. A juvenile detention record is the only tether she can find beyond his work. Her new favorite author committed arson. _A good sign_ , Mr. Chipping said, adding _Fahrenheit 451_ to the book list. The Jones family seems to have a history of criminal activity. At least that means they have connections to all kinds of society, which could be useful down the line, even if they are encouraged to keep themselves in check by doing their own dirty work whenever possible lest they take on less admirable traits of the pigs in _Animal Farm._

In decades past, it appeared that Stonewall tried and failed to recruit Forsythe the First. Forsythe Jr. showed no particular promise or inclination for higher learning and changing the world. “The third time’s the charm,” Betty tells Mr. Chipping, refusing to give up.

From what Mr. Chipping recounted about Forsythe’s attitude after being summoned to the Principal’s office to take a meeting, their recruit has some issues with authority. With a brain like his, of course he does. He’s probably not being challenged enough. Or maybe he’s like her and can’t trust people for other reasons–personal ones.

After researching everything she can on their potential prodigy, she senses a deep, complex tenderness for his low-income family and long-term friends. Perhaps he ought to have visitations home, unlike most of their classmates. Mr. Chipping should hint that accepting an education at Stonewall might help others less fortunate than him.

Finally, after arranging some scholarship opportunities and a very nice cash offer to his father, Forsythe is tempted enough to take the tour.

“He’s not whatever you’re expecting,” Mr. Chipping warns.

All she knows is she needs to meet him. Smoothing her skirt, Betty fusses over her second most flattering sweater and makes sure her ponytail doesn’t have any flyaways.

Forsythe Jones III is more than anything she would have dreamed. He’s tall with dark hair, an elegant nose, and perfect lips. He parts the sea of blazers and trousers with hanging suspenders like a cowboy walking through town in search of a drink. The only plaid on him is a flannel slung around his waist. Mr. Chipping appointed Bret host the tour to give him a sense of _male camaraderie_ –which Betty thinks reeks of sexist pig logic–but now that Forsythe’s here, now that he’s close _,_ her heartbeat keeps pounding louder until she’s almost possessed by some fangirl need to throw herself at his feet.

He knows her, intimately, in a way no one else has.

Scanning, purposely removed from everything, Jughead appears to be enduring one of Bret’s self-indulgent critiques of their many cafeteria options, which is stupid, because their research said Forsythe loved to eat. Bret should be talking the cafeteria _up._ He probably skimmed the welcome packet in favor of indulging in his reflection. The only thing Bret finds worthy of praise is himself. Anyone who doesn’t think he’s wonderful is dismissed as having poor taste and a low IQ. Forsythe looks like he’s two seconds away from slipping his headphones back over his ears and turning his back on the institution altogether.

He can’t leave–not before they make a connection! She’s not going to leave it to chance. The world needs him as much as she does.

Tugging down her sweater until the V is snug against her breasts, Betty strides up to the boys and fixes them both with her biggest smile. “Hi, Bret.”

He gives her a peeved look like he knows what this is about. Maybe she’s taken a few projects off his hands in the past, but that’s only because he’s confident to the point of carelessness.

Forsythe is someone to handle with the utmost care and attention.

From the way his eyes brighten, lingering on her lips, she can tell he’s at least a little interested. Pride flares through her fingertips. Her posture is usually nice anyway, but one of the perks of this pose is that her chest looks bigger.

“You must be the student Mr. Chipping’s been telling us about. Forsythe?”

His mouth twitches in annoyance. “Jughead.”

The bristled attitude knocks her off-guard. “Sorry?”

“I prefer Jughead.”

“And I prefer Forsythe,” Bret adds, looking down the hall and stretching his back like he just wants to get on with the tour.

Betty glares at him and rearranges the letters associated with her favorite man in her brain. “Jughead it is, then. My name’s Elizabeth Cooper, but I go by Betty.”

Reluctant, but seemingly appreciative, he shakes her hand.

 _Big hands_.

She tries not to let her knees tremble or to hold onto him too tightly. Meeting him makes her want to surrender to something, whether it be a feeling or Forsythe himself. It’s a foreign, if not unwelcome sensation.

“Welcome to Stonewall Prep! Has Bret told you about our reading program?” She wants to hurt herself for phrasing it so their club sounds like a juvenile activity. Bret chuckles at her slip and Jughead looks confused.

“Um, this is a school, so I assume reading is part of the program?”

“Yes, I–”

“You’ll have to excuse Betty. She gets ahead of herself, sometimes. She’s talking about our somewhat exclusive club, commonly referred to as the Society. This week we’re talking about Moby Dick. You wanna sit in? Share your thoughts, if you have any?”

Gritting her teeth, Betty sinks her nails into her palms. Bret’s making her look like an idiot and implying Jughead may not be worthy.

“Yeah. That’s one of my favorites.”

“Great.” Bret shoots her a satisfied glance. _See what I did there? All by myself?_

_Go fuck yourself, Bret._

Jughead stuffs his hands in his pockets and catches her eye, transforming her glare into a beam. “Um, see you there?”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

As she prances away, she can feel her skirt and hair flounce with more energy than she thinks she’s ever had. Maybe there’s more than one pair of eyes on her backside.

That doesn’t matter.

Jughead Jones is coming back and she’s going to make sure he stays. Everyone deserves a passionate education.

Every time the door opens, Betty sits up in anticipation. Mr. Chipping chuckles to himself, rearranging his notes. “He’ll come.”

Bret rolls his eyes. “The guy was practically salivating over the complimentary breakfast options. Pretty sure he’ll be here for the snacks, if not the discourse.”

“Be nice,” Mr. Chipping chides before Betty has to.

When Jughead enters, the room feels electric. He’s still human in her eyes–sweaty and a little pale, like maybe he’s on the verge of throwing up or running away, but enticing nonetheless.

“Jughead!” She waves and gestures to the chair between her and Bret, the one she shooed the other members away from. It’s directly across from Mr. Chipping.

“Thanks,” he mutters, offering her a slanted smile.

She squeezes her thighs together and eagerly offers him some snacks, much to Bret’s amusement.

“Maybe after.”

Heart sinking, Betty settles into her chair. She just wants to be helpful and make him comfortable.

The debate starts with Mr. Chipping’s question: “So, what do we think the whale symbolizes?”

“Nothing,” Jughead mumbles, surprisingly blunt.

“Care to expand?”

He glances around the room like he’s casting a net to test them. “Melville hated metaphors. He specifically went on record saying he hoped his works wouldn’t be mistaken for…”

The more he talks, the more Betty feels like her soul is stretched outside of her body. She’s grinning by the time he finishes. The little smile he allows himself when Mr. Chipping praises him makes her feel quite certain she’s falling in love with him.

Unable to stop herself, she reaches over and squeezes his arm, mouthing _‘Good job!’_ and smiling brightly. Surprise flashes across his face, fading with a soft glow as he diverts his gaze to the floor.

She settles back into her seat, certain that everything in her life has led to this meeting. With the confidence of destiny spilling out in front of her, Betty contributes succinctly and smartly, basking in Jughead’s small smiles meant just for her.

By the end of it, she’s ready to drag him to her room and tie him up with her sweaters–or maybe his suspenders–to make sure he’s cozy enough that he never wants to leave.

“So what do you think?” she asks, full of faux-shyness as he bites into one of the cookies she baked, licking his lips of any crumbs before taking a determined gulp of black coffee.

“I think… this could be interesting.”

Everyone in the Society mocks that she’s claimed and adopted him. Nurturing him and his talent just comes naturally. He’s got so much of it and she has so much to give. He’s gorgeous. He’s brilliant. He has a photo with his arm around a girl pinned above his bunk.

“She’s young.”

“That’s my sister, JB,” he says offhandedly, like it’s normal for guys to have photos of their sisters in their dorm rooms. Betty has one of Polly and Charles, but nothing particularly intimate with anybody.

“That’s sweet. Who else did you bring?”

He gives her a look at the odd phrasing and shows her a photo of a redheaded guy wearing a jersey. “That’s my friend, Archie. He’s like a puppy.”

As they keep talking, she finds herself wanting to know everything _._ Of course, she doesn’t want to wear him out or come off as clingy, so she sticks to the basics and asks about pets and his writing, eventually working her way up to asking about any partners of an intimate variety.

Jughead smiles to himself. Betty’s nails dig into her heartbeat so she doesn’t rip herself to shreds and throw herself at him in the hopes he’ll take her over anyone else.

“No companions of those varieties on my end. What about you?” His voice has a playful edge as he unpacks the rest of his meager things and her nails unbed themselves from her flesh.

“I might have something brewing,” she teases, bumping his hip with hers and offering her services as a mediocre tailor for the clothes that might not fit quite right yet. She teaches him how to knot a tie, captivated by the way his throat bobs every time she brushes the silk against his skin. Her lips roll inward so she isn’t tempted to lean up into his hot stare and kiss him. Despite every urge to claim him, she wants him to choose her, nurture her, see into her soul and reach in for more. As his fingers flex at his sides and his gaze strays from her eyes to each corner of her lips, she begins to fantasize about him tying her up, instead.

Heat drips down her back every time she catches his attention lingering on her in class. She has to bite on her pen or press it to her lips to prevent her smile from blooming too brightly whenever he says something sarcastic. His sense of humor is rare around Stonewall. So is his background, to be fair, even if his grandfather did come from a similar one however many decades prior.

After sneaking onto Jughead’s computer to check what kind of porn he likes, she buys a similar set of lingerie to the girls in his secret folders and “accidentally” lets him see it as she sets up for the Society meetings. The way he has to cover his lap with books fills her with a secret thrill, one that has her masturbating to the idea of him pressing her chest into the snack table and fucking her from behind. After the first lingerie preview, he arrives early to help her bake, licking the batter and eyeing her hungrily.

“Thanks for the enlightenment, Betts,” he says with a glint in his eye as he slides a goody bag across his lap.

She wants to shove the food aside and fuck him on the desk. “My pleasure.”

They haven’t kissed yet and it’s driving her crazy.

On some level, she understands that they shouldn’t rush anything. A new live-in school would be quite an adjustment. He’s spent most of his transition trying to catch up on the intensive syllabus. The first weekend she invites him to “study,” he apologetically informs her that he already promised to visit his family, so she sends him off with extra treats and a note hidden in the tin that says, “ _Miss you already_.”

Later that night, he sends her a photo with his tongue slipping against his fingers, seeking the crumbs of her present, but her mind blooms with ideas of him savoring a more personal flavor. “ _Delicious,”_ reads the caption.

_“I could say the same thing ;)”_

Even though he’ll be back for the Sunday Society meeting, he asks her if they can make plans that week. Obviously, they can. Beyond flirting, they talk about their days, their families, anything. His perspective and passions stoke a fire within her, the same one she sees burning in his eyes whenever she talks. Sometimes, she doesn’t even have to do that. They just… connect.

The Society doesn’t really promote intermingling with feelings just in case things sour in the group dynamic, but they don’t necessarily discourage it, either. There’s no real need to hide the flirtation as long as it doesn’t interfere with the Society’s mission. Mr. Chipping (and everyone else) can see how strongly she wants to keep him. They’ve all broken unspoken rules before. That’s half the point of being _in_ the Society.

Bret doesn’t seem keen on initiation. “There’s something weird about him.”

“He’s extraordinary.” The ice in her tone makes the rest of them shift.

“We’ll see, Elizabeth,” Mr. Chipping placates, adding notes to their agenda.

After their readings on Sunday night, the Society encourages her to walk Jughead back to the dorm so the rest of the group can start their other meetings. Donna will fill her in later, but Betty always cross-references the details with another member just in case someone’s trying to fuck her over. Bret has a history of lying about the assignments so his piece is more likely to be chosen as _most fitting,_ if not the most _extraordinary_. “You must not have understood me,” is his most famous catchphrase, one she mocks with Jughead on their walk together.

“He acts like a classic 80’s movie prep antagonist who didn’t get enough love from Mommy and Daddy.”

“Is that how you see all of us?” she asks, hands clasped behind her back so she doesn’t use his tie to climb him like a tree.

“Not at all,” he teases, half-bowing to her with a glint in his eye. “You’re my knight in plaid armor, wielding leftover cookies to heal my pock-marked soul.”

“Tell me about this soul of yours.”

His roommate Marmaduke is at the gym, so it’s just them in the quiet of his dorm with its tinted, elegant, arched windows.

Jughead stands across from her with a reverence more sacred than she’s ever felt at a religious service. “Can I show you?”

“Your soul?” she clarifies, elated, closing the distance between them.

He places his hands on either side of her face and finally presses a kiss to her lips. Her heart takes flight. She cuffs her hands around his wrists to feel his rapid-fire pulse. It’s sweet. It’s pure. It ends all too quickly and gently as he eases their mouths apart. Hovering, his face a mask of serenity, he waits for her response.

She licks her lips and hums, savoring the warm, tingling sensation. “That was nice.”

He raises his eyebrows. “But?”

“I think you’re holding back.”

For a moment, he trembles, uncertainty flashing in his eyes.

“It’s okay to go full dark, no stars with me, Juggie.”

Something paces in that brilliant mind of his that prevents him from tearing into her soul and feasting on her flesh.

Once he tastes her depravity, he’ll understand that he doesn’t need to pretend with her. “I don’t just mean kinks. We all have our secrets. That’s how we get tethered to the Society. It’s not all brilliant minds and symmetric faces.” She traces the pretty curve of his chin, reveling in the way he looks like he wants to crawl into her brain and investigate it. “Most people wouldn’t know it from looking at me, but I almost drowned a man.”

His eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in suspense. “Why?”

“He hurt my sister. I don’t remember much about it. The adrenaline–I blacked out for a bit in a fugue state.” His mouth forms a thin line and he nods like he understands–but of course, he’d understand. “The Society covered it up, but now I’m sort of indebted to them.”

“They’re blackmailing you?”

“Not exactly.” Betty shifts her weight to one hip, leaning into his hand and trying to figure out the best way to phrase it. “We all help each other. Checks and balances.”

Jughead narrows his gaze. “Why _didn’t_ you kill him?” Her breath catches in her chest, eyes widening on the man before her. He sees her so intimately. “What stopped you? Or was it just to scare him?”

“I guess… killing him was too much. He hurt my sister. He didn’t murder her. I wanted justice.”

His hand winds in her hair, dragging it out of its ponytail. “After all, we're not murderers, in spite of what this undertaker thinks.”

“The Godfather?”

“Very good, Betty.” Eyes wild and dark, he digs their hips together. Betty nearly groans at the praise and all the layers still between them. It’s like he’s braiding her into his body and mind. “What happened next?”

“I guess I must’ve scared him because he transferred without ever reporting it. Last I heard, he sent Mr. Chipping a message about finding his faith and he issued a blanket apology to anyone he hurt.”

“Faith, huh?” He sucks on her jaw and the impact might as well be on her clit. She shudders and holds onto him like a raft in the river of sin. “Maybe there’s hope for our twisted souls.”

“Maybe.” She slides her fingers along his shoulders, seeking exoneration, or maybe wings. Instead, she feels his teeth and runs her nails down his back, lost in the intimacy. As they explore, her hair comes loose, her shirt rucked up from her skirt. “Wait,” she breathes, doing a quick scan of his room for surveillance equipment.

He pulls at her waist, concerned. “You’re safe with me, Betty.”

“No one is safe with anybody.”

“You’re safe with me,” he repeats more insistently.

She feels loved, at the very least.

Being so close to him makes her feel like maybe they could be. Everything sort of melts together until his lips hit her forehead and she breaks out in a fevered need. “Jughead?” They meld together, hungry and rash.

As his hand closes over her breast and he calls her body _poetry_ , a spark of clarity jolts through her veins. She pulls back with a gasp.

Eyes wide, Jughead freezes, like moving his hands might result in a reprimand.

“The Society. I have to go. I’ll be back, Juggie. I’ll explain everything.”

Hands grounded in his sweater, she pulls him in for a deep kiss that seems to daze him enough to give her time to escape. It’s difficult to tame the soft waves of her hair while she’s hurrying to make up for the time she spent “dallying.” Still, she returns before she’s missed too much of anything and throws herself into the discussion, avoiding Bret’s hard gaze on the way her shirt is untucked.

“That was quick,” he jibes upon their dismissal. “Thought you’d want to revel in your little genius’s company.”

“He’s not so little,” she says without even thinking, much to the shock of the entire room. Even though she didn’t mean for it to sound dirty, the look on Bret’s face is enough to make her gather her books and flounce back to Jughead’s room to see if it’s true.

He answers the door with a heated, “Betty” and pulls her inside, tossing his necktie on the doorknob. She tells him everything, straddling him on the lower bunk bed, hyper-aware of the way his fingertips keep stroking the skin and silk of her garters under her skirt. It brings her that strange sense of chaotic clarity again.

“Why does the Society even want me?”

“Because you’re amazing,” she breathes, kissing him deeply.

“I know why _you_ want me, or I have an idea, at least.” Frowning, he rolls her onto his roommate’s mattress, rucking her skirt up to expose the soaked lacy undergarments that she saw in his secret photos. “Jesus.” As his thumb drags along her slit, her whole body vibrates with need.

“Please, Juggie.”

“I get that you did some digging, but are you–is _this_ –” He hooks a finger around her underwear and pulls it away from her skin, letting it breathe and ache for him. “–a trap for me?”

“No! We used the scholarship and writing program to lure you in. I just… I just want to–”

“Come?” he finishes, voice husky as he peers into her eyes, sifting through her secrecy for the truth.

Moaning, she nods, unbuttoning her shirt and slinking out of it. “You understand me.”

“I do, I think.” His thumb slinks across the curve of her jaw, then her breast. “But I don’t understand them, yet. Not all the way. I get why they want _you_.”

“Do you?”

His gaze flashes with heat as he runs his hand down her sternum, drumming his fingers delicately over her heart. When one finger questioningly slips under the front of her bra, she releases the clasp and lets him pull it away, one less weight on her shoulders.

She aches to be touched, to be freed. His eyes and hands hungrily roam her skin, brain still chugging ahead.

“You’re the press darling, the one who can expose and bury all kinds of secrets. Why do you want me? I’m a writer.”

“You see the world in a way no one else does, Juggie, for all the stars and the darkness. Your writing, your passion, and your mind are all invaluable to a better society. I happen to also be fond of your body.”

“I had a feeling.” Smiling fondly, he pulls her underwear down the slope of her ass. “You look like you’re going to jump me half the time we’re doing the readings.”

“Would you like that?”

The smack of his palm on her ass stuns both of them. Eyes wide, lips parted, he looks almost afraid of what he did, of what he could do on impulse.

Giggling in disbelief and want, she opens her legs and lets the heat of her urges wash over her. “No stars, Jug.”

He swallows audibly, expression hard. “Tell me what they want.”

“They like your affiliations.”

“My affiliations?” The way the word rumbles off his tongue makes her wonder what it might feel like drawn against her clit.

“Jughead,” she huffs, getting impatient.

“What do you like?” he asks softly, taking his beanie off and leaning over her chest.

“You. All of you. Your mind, your heart. You understand…” All of his dark past has been a benefit to his character–his criminal parents, the gang-related warfare, even the arson, and his father’s recent turnaround into law enforcement–all of it has led him to who he is, and she prays that he values whatever she is.

“Show me what you like, Betty.” His lips graze the hollow of her neck just before the bite.

“Mm, mark me. Touch me. Just like that.”

With her hands lost in his hair, her mind unhinged, Betty surrenders herself to the longing to really know someone and let them in.

He curls and twists her body into new positions with his fingers hooked inside her slit. Filthy words murmured against her neck crawl under her skin, buried in a new wave of wonderful sins.

A handjob doesn’t seem like a fitting first time for them. As the world shatters behind her eyelids, his thumb on her trigger, Betty decides they’ve had enough foreplay and it’s time to dig in.

Once she’s recovered from her orgasm, he seems stunned by her enthusiasm, by the way she sucks his cock only long enough to get him moaning and wet before straddling him again.

“I have an implant.”

Reverent and horny, Jughead looks at her eyes. “I might not last.”

Her fingers interlock within the luxury of his hair and she thrills in the vicious urge to claim all he is and all he could be. She wants him to thrive inside of her soul. “I want all of you.”

Just before she slides down, he halts her hips, looking up at her like he could cry and kiss her all in the same gesture. “I want it too. I want it to last with you.”

“It will, Jughead.” _Forever,_ she hopes. Betty slides down on him, the world and her lover shuddering in shock as they’re inside one another. Then he’s gripping her, straining, pumping, and emptying against her grind. In their friction, they don’t just spark–they ignite.


	2. Chapter 2

Jughead’s doubtful that the Society wants to shape society for the benefit of all instead of their own private schemes.

“We could make it better.” Betty’s bare thigh is comfortably draped across his middle.

He pulls her closer, chuckling at the ceiling. “ _We_. I like the sound of that.”

So does she.

They work out a schedule with his roommate. One of the perks about being in the Society is learning the easiest ways to slip under the radar for nefarious activities. Brainstorming and Jughead become her favorite ways of blowing off steam. Whether it’s homework or orgasms, they help each other with everything.

She keeps the come stain on the first shirt he used to clean her up with and wears it with a sweater so only he knows what’s resting against the small of her back. He slaps her ass until it’s rosy and fucks her from behind so he hits all the right spots that blend pleasure and pain. Gentle nips by his ear lead to other more serious sucking and kisses that have her steadying his bucking hips until they’re both ready to fuck again.

They ache to spend the night together uninhibited by propriety and rules. It’s just one of the many things they aim for in the better world they plan on building.

Bret might suspect the depth of their affair from the way he bristles at their mutual adoration. “Why are you covering up, Elizabeth? Don’t you want to show your boyfriend what he gets for being a good boy?”

She applies some chapstick with her middle finger in a not-so-subtle signal to _back the fuck off_ before resuming her attention to Jughead’s latest short story on her desk.

“What? You only want to use those lips when you’re giving Jones some inspiration?”

Jughead’s heated stare slides over from across the room and his assigned desk, where he’s reading her story and leaving notes in the Google doc on his laptop. Bret’s just lashing out because he doesn’t have any original ideas for the prompt and wants his own form of inspiration.

“Size is relative, isn’t it?” Bret continues. “Tell me something–is it longer than this pen?” A small, hard projectile flings against her back. Even if it’s small, the shock makes her want to impale him as she clenches her own utensil hard in her hand. “Rather not say? I can’t blame you. Don’t want to make your man look bad.”

“If you’re that curious, Bret, I’m sure you can get transferred into his gym class,” she snaps, already scribbling notes to Jughead to distract herself again, the other members snickering under their breath.

A kick sends her chair lurching forward and she gasps, clutching at the edge of her desk for balance.

Before she can even lash back, Jughead’s across the room, fists in Bret’s lapels as he hauls him out of his chair and slams his back into Joanne’s desk. “You touch her again and it’s the last time you’ll have hands.”

“Technically, I used my feet, but I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Daenerys Targaryen.”

Scoffing, Betty picks up the pen and whips it at Bret’s face as Jughead throws him back into his chair. Despite Stonewall’s Zero Tolerance policy on violence, she kind of wants to watch Jughead choke Bret’s selfish ass out–not more than she wants Jughead here with her, though.

“You okay?” An intensity brews in his gaze that she hopes will last until she can straddle him later.

“Yeah. Thanks.” She feels like she won the lottery of protective, passionate, intellectual soulmates. The authority he carries has nothing to do with his name and everything to do with the hard choices he’s made. All of the events of their lives have led them to be together. She’s sure of it.

As they head to his dorm, Jughead slings a possessive arm around her shoulder and glares at the space behind them. “Donna’s hooking up with Moose and she never gets any shit from Bret–not even when she won last week’s challenge. Why does he care about us so much?”

“I don’t know. Everything with Bret is a competition, especially with other men.”

“Were you two ever…?”

“No!” she scoffs, opening the door and enjoying the way he lets out a relieved breath. “Compassion is not one of his strong suits–nor is actual passion, which makes him even more unattractive. He’s going to be a diplomat like dear old Dad, which probably forecasts some impersonal affairs to reinforce that he’s a _total catch._ I think he might’ve technically had some dates to formal events, but none of the women here have ‘met his standards’ for more than that.”

“ _His_ standards or his Dad’s?”

“Both, I imagine. He did offer to grace me with his presence when he saw potential in a blonde who knew how to fix tenses.” Spinning on her heel, Betty plants a kiss on Jughead’s cheek and smooths her lipstick into his skin. His deep blue eyes search hers with an intensity that inspires a much less chaste kiss. They pop up for air a minute later and she tries to level her energy as she confesses, “No one captured my eye, hand, or heart until a certain Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Third waltzed in.”

“Did you purposely leave your lipstick on me?” She giggles gleefully as he lifts and carries her into an empty classroom for a quick bout of playtime since Marmaduke is scheduled to have the bedroom.

It’s difficult to act professionally–to avoid sitting on his lap in the common room or bending over the snack table during Society meetings to give him a treat. They manage to keep their public passion low-key enough that Jughead’s work speaks for itself, and soon enough, Mr. Chipping asks the Society to start thinking about how to welcome him into their fold. The Society has enough information from initial research and Jughead’s personal essays to figure out what might be the most effective way to leave an impression. Thankfully, they don’t press Betty for any private details, which she wouldn’t share, and if threatened, would lie about, anyway.

She thinks Jughead would hate them instead of finding perspective in any hazing rituals of yore. Betty’s night of horror was a drugged-out mess of an evening involving a sensory deprivation tank that ripped her reality apart and left her with a fear of baptisms and baths. She doesn’t want that for Jughead. He doesn’t need that.

Nobody needs that.

Her nails dig into her palms as she bobs on the edge of disassociation.

The actual event needs to be a surprise, something that would be hard for Jughead to fake. She’s warned him of the initiation’s intention–to make him desperate to crave a better reality and emerge a new man. The bleak isolation serves to make the welcoming ceremony that much more inviting. She remembers dripping, crawling on her knees until someone wrapped her up in a blanket and told her she was “just like them.” Her skin prickles with chills, mad radiance burning her memories away.

 _We must do better_.

They were supposed to be heroes, deliver justice, pledge loyalty to serving the betterment of society.

They changed her clothes and filled her ears with bubbles and screams. It felt like justice at the time. Now, she wonders. Rebirthing Jughead can’t possibly make him any better than he is. It’ll make him angrier. Sharper. A weapon more than an agent of passion. Or maybe something else entirely, someone she hasn’t met yet.

_Do the ends justify the means?_

That was their prompt for the Poets Society this week. Betty wants to light all of their papers on fire and stuff the embers down their throats, consuming her own like coal to absorb the poison she's been fed since she was a child.

Carefully neutralizing her expression during the discussion, she lets her fingers go slack against her knees, aware of the way Bret’s gaze skims over her bloody nails. He smirks, his attention briefly shifting to her exposed thighs like he’s contemplating if she’s worth the calories. "I'm curious what you have to say about this, Elizabeth, considering your family had a lot to say on the subject."

Inhaling deeply, Betty throws a sidelong glance at Jughead. He raises his eyebrows, _Do you want me to step in?_

 _I can handle him,_ she telepaths back with a slight swish of her ponytail. How empowering to actually have someone be willing to go to bat for her, though.

"We are not our families," she quotes, wondering if he'll use Forsythe Pendleton Jones III, J. Jones, or something new once he does get published. He smiles at her, then his lap like he can't contain how much he loves her. Soon, they'll go to Yale together and they won't have to suppress anything.

The stretching silence makes the other uncomfortable to the point of shifting. "Anything else you'd like to add?" Chipping prods.

"The entire concept is a common misquote of Machiavelli. He is by no means implying that a prince can act without virtue or consequence. He wrote, “Inasmuch as men judge generally more by the eye than by the hand, because it belongs to everybody to see you, to few to come in touch with you.” The appearance of virtue endears one to the public, but only some will truly know your heart and methods, which sheds more truth on your values than a mask ever will."

When emerging from initiation or a phone call from that dreaded Unknown Caller, she'd been stripped of dignity and circumstance, but she felt empowered by her vulnerability whenever she was with Jughead. "The means are important," she decides aloud.

"But justified, in most cases," Bret muses, clearly pushing his own agenda.

"The Prince is meant to be satire," Jughead interjects. "Leaders forged through necessity and passion tend to be more driven than those born into their status, so Machiavelli volunteers an education. It's an instruction guide showing ways one _could_ rule the working class in a world of tyrants without implying that they _should._ "

Narrowing his eyes, Bret pivots. "Didn't you inherit your father's kingdom? Please, educate us, oh Serpent Prince. Where was your palace again: was it the junkyard, the stripper-infested dive bar, or the dilapidated trailer park scheduled for demolition?"

"Gentlemen, a call for order," Chipping reminds them. "I think we can all agree that Machiavelli calls into question what it takes to thrive in a community of questionable morals while still maintaining pride in your accomplishments and confidence in your abilities–and your relationships," he adds, nodding to Betty and Jughead.

They offer each other wry smirks and Betty squeezes his arm, proud of how far they've come, how much they can trust one another in everything. As the discussion goes on, she wonders how she can make the initiation easier for him.

Biting her lip, Betty bows her head, her ponytail slick against her neck as she makes notes, processing the discussion in one part of her mind, grinding through this dilemma in another.

She loves him. His stories are already so powerful. But someone like Chipping could connect him with publishers better than she can at the moment. Joining would give him opportunities. The price is pain. In some ways, he'd be chained to them in a very different way than the gang, because with Society, there wasn't a way out. Not unless you went off the grid. Even then...

 _You must do better_.

Her nails carve a pattern into her palms without sinking in, dark totems that ground her from dissociation.

 _You must do better, Betty_.

After the meeting, the others linger to talk about some upcoming fencing tournament, so she takes Jughead's hand and leads him back to the dorms while trying to explain her position. She wants things to be better for _him_... for _them_ , but she isn't sure of the best way to do that.

“I want to be with you,” he says simply, brushing her hair behind her ear with such tenderness she feels a surge in her chest like a fast-sprouting seed bursting into bloom, its roots curling around her ribs. “A publishing contract would be a dream come true, but not if it compromises our happiness. Why don't we sleep on it?”

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath, moving closer. “We’ll keep going, then.” There is nothing they can’t tackle together. Resting her head against his chest, she listens to his heartbeat to soothe the wild pounding in her head.

The next morning, she’s awakened by an emergency request from Mr. Chipping. One of his friends–one of the _Society_ alumni–got into hot water and she needs to handle the press. She texts Jughead an apology that she’ll have to miss their ongoing breakfast date and puts together a bag.

Mr. Chipping is waiting outside. The motor churns with the same steady groan of her stomach.

“Let’s get this over with,” she says, ducking into the passenger’s seat. After settling into the soft shaky feeling of exiting Stonewall, they make small talk about the Blue and Gold, Jughead’s latest story, and her ( _their_ ) future plans, her voice hoarse from lack of sleep. “He deserves to be published and mentored to great success.”

“That’s a real possibility, assuming he’s willing to give back to the Society.”

“He’s very giving,” she assures him, willing herself not to be embarrassed by the unintended double entendre.

Mr. Chipping shifts in his seat. “We’ve had you as a part of the group for some time now, but now that Jughead’s come in, it seems like you two are a unit. Society can’t afford cliques.” Betty snorted under her breath. Wasn’t that what the Poets Society was to begin with? A club of like-minded individuals?

“Our focus is on the mission statement,” she said, folding her arms and staring straight ahead. “Improving ourselves and society through our work. Our relationship makes us stronger assets, not a risk.”

"What happens if you break up?"

Outrage swells up at the unexpected and outrageous suggestion. What does Mr. Chipping know of love? His wedding band is a bland commitment to someone who never challenges or inspires him. Betty and Jughead are _soulmates_.

"We're basically engaged," she informs him. "And even in some hypothetical situation where we had an argument, that wouldn't affect the mission. He is _in_ my life and I am in his. We respect each other enough to work together towards a solution."

"Have you had any disagreements to test your relationship?"

Whatever she answers will make them seem weak-and they're _not_. "That's personal."

"You may want to find out sooner rather than later. We know from his past that he’s a leader, but do you think he could be a team player and collaborate with Society without your insistence on it?”

“Why is his flexibility in question? He switched schools and support bases at our encouragement. He's committed to this-to me, as well," she snaps.

"Team player.” What did they want Jughead to do, take a backseat while someone like Bret got a publishing contract just because it looked good on a college resume? This was Jughead’s passion and talent. So what if he ruffles a few egos in the process?

Betty spends the rest of the afternoon muddling through papers, phone calls, and databases. In the interim, she starts carving away at Chipping’s doubts, siphoning information out of him about his publishing contacts, Society alumni, and anything else she can manage. People always underestimate her detective abilities. In a few hours, she has everything arranged to bury the exposé on the alumni and has added to Chipping's research on cult organizations. Sometimes these assignments feel more like a test than an assignment or some grand duty to improve anything. Then again, her mother might never have had the future she did without burying a few records, and Charles had to hide her paternal connection to get her a college interview, so Betty tries to keep that in perspective as she tightens her ponytail and wipes someone else’s slate clean.

Chipping is staring out a window instead of proofing their work (again). Annoyed, Betty takes a recording of his antics, then marches off to get some water and maybe connect with someone who does put forth an effort. Jughead doesn’t answer her video chat request, so she sends him a sleepy selfie, instead. “ _Miss you. xo_ ”

It remains unread for a surprising twenty minutes, at which point Betty feels like her skin is an itchy layer and she needs to get back to Stonewall but Mr. Chipping keeps pushing her to solve cult mysteries and find the right contacts for the future. Her head throbs with pressure unrelated to her ponytail and she finally puts her head in her hands. If they did the hacking at Stonewall Prep, it might get traced back to them, but something feels off about doing the research on their own.

“Betty, you’re special,” Mr. Chipping says softly. “Your passions are unparalleled. You don’t need Jughead to solve this the same way he wouldn’t need you. Unless you think either of you isn’t up to the task?”

Flexing her knuckles, Betty hears them crack. It’s better than digging into her skin. “We can handle it.”

By the time they get back to Stonewall, she’s pissed off and ready to purge that into passionate ranting and fucking with Jughead, but her boyfriend still hasn’t responded to her. His bag is in his room but he isn't, so she rakes her hands through her hair and heads to the library, but he isn’t there, either. The mess hall isn’t open and as far as she knows he hasn’t taken up with any new friends or extracurriculars. She storms over to Donna’s room, knocking despite the necktie on the handle.

No one answers.

Hammering on the door, Betty calls, “Is Moose in there? I'm trying to find Jughead and he isn't answering me.” She’ll break down the door if she has to. There are always her handy bobby pins...

After a hushed, heated argument, she hears footsteps on the other side just before Moose twists the lock and opens the door with an alarmed expression. “

Donna tried to mask a smirk with wide-eyed innocence from her seated position on the bed. “Maybe he was called home by his snake friends. Have you tried interrupting any of them?”

Betty has half a mind to punch the door open and demand answers, perhaps shove her keys against the slippery little eel’s neck. Instead, her mouth twitches into an instinctive smile.

_We must do better, Betty._

“Thanks for the suggestion.”

Wracking her brain for where else he could be, she makes her way to the Society room to see if she can dig up anything on his initiation. There’s a padlock on the doors.

Practically shaking with adrenaline, Betty finds some bolt cutters and a hammer from the auto shop and takes out her frustration with slams and snips that shudder through her whole body. Kicking the padlock away, she yanks open the doors and feels her stomach lurch with the sudden drop of a rollercoaster dip.

A _coffin_.

A scream rattles through her mind, her heart swollen and pulsing as she processes muffled shouts for help and thuds. She tears the coffin open, barely conscious of if she’s using the tools or her bare fists as wood splinters into stakes and Jughead’s arms join the pulsing panic. The deathly pallor and position of her love sinks into her brain like a living nightmare. His eyes are matte, pupils dilating in panic at seeing light for the first time in who knew how long. Jughead scrambles out with the desperation of a drowning man, clinging to her like she’s a buoy against the current. For a moment, her mind dips back to the time she got out of the deprivation tank when she was on the other end of a hallucination and soul-deep desperation.

Kneeling at this altar, she cradles him against her. There’s a rough texture on the back of his head. Dried blood, she realizes when he winces at the touch. “They hurt you.” It doesn’t seem real.

 _We must do better_.

After a few moments of rocking together, Jughead manages to kneel with her, shaking. “They’re fucking crazy.” His grip crushes her ribs, twisting them together. “The Serpents beat me half to death but they didn’t try to bury me there. There were expectations. You told me there'd be tests, not... not _this_.”

"I didn't know they were planning anything," she manages, trembling with rage and regret. "At least not specifically." They didn't trust her with it. Her loyalties were too obvious, which must have compromised everything for him.

The Society members trample past the broken doors like they can't believe the _means_ she used to find her boyfriend. Betty grips the bolt cutters, subtly nudging the hammer towards Jughead while she helps him stand. Her emotions go blank, her brain shifting into survival mode.

“What the hell happened here?” Bret asks, looking at the splintered wood and broken metal. “Is one of your new kinks breaking and entering?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Jughead spits.

Donna frowns in faux concern. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This room has been locked up since last night. Perhaps the maintenance staff knows something about it.”

“Did they also steal your clothes for my attempted murder?”

“Seems like if someone wanted to kill you, they could’ve done it while you were unconscious,” Bret supplies, shrugging at Donna’s harsh glare. “They must’ve hit you over the head pretty hard there, Forsythe, for you to imagine people in _bunny_ masks. Thank goodness your girlfriend was here to save the day or you might’ve tried to play the hero of one of those pulp stories you love so much and tried to punch through the coffin–might’ve broken that precious hand. Tell me, Betty, would you be more disappointed about it affecting the constant pawing or his writing proficiency?”

Jughead strains forward, the veins in his neck throbbing. “How’d you like me to break your nose, Bret?”

"Wait! The contract," Betty reminds him, trying to ignore the black dots spreading across her vision as she tightens her grip on his arm, pulling at her ponytail with the other hand.

"Forget the contract! Forget the Society! You talk about philosophy and philanthropy! What exactly are you giving back? You use each other as collateral damage and pawns in some greater game of chess where the prize is what? A publishing contract? The privilege of life without real consequences? Well I, for one, refuse to be a part of the gladiator arena between a bunch of privileged assholes who got their kicks dropping me in a coffin for daring to dream I deserved better than a dead-end life in Riverdale. You wouldn't have lasted a day there. And if you do happen to step foot in my "kingdom,"" he seethes, mocking, "Rest assured people will recognize your faces. Talk to me, _touch_ me, so much as wiggle a fucking nose in my direction and you'll get karmic justice that nothing-not even Daddy's blood money can't protect you from. Try wrapping your "brilliant" minds around that."

Before Betty can fully make sense of it, Jughead's yanked his arm free and slammed through the crowd, making his way back to his dorm room. Without her.

"Jughead," she chokes, stunned. As she's trying to pass through the group, Bret steps in front of her. The slap connects before she can even connect the dots between her rage and her body. Everyone around them flinches in shock. Palm stinging, eyes wet, and shaking with effort, she stares at the pink mark blooming on his skin. So much for nonviolence. So much for the contract. "How dare you lay a hand on him!" she seethes.

"It's not our fault he's not cut out for this," Bret insists, massaging his cheek. "You knew he'd be tested, eventually. And this was your challenge as much as his. Your loyalty should be with _us_ as opposed to your genius prick and Prince."

"I was already tested, you idiot! I wasn't going to let him suffocate because you wanted to haze him! What do you expect? That I'd be impressed that instead of using sedatives you tried to brain my boyfriend? For what? How does this help him?"

Donna studies her with a furrowed brow and that affected "I'm just thinking out loud" voice Betty hates. "We didn't do anything worse to him than we endured during our own initiations."

"You could've chosen to make it easier on him, to make things better, but you didn't."

"So what are you going to do about it?" Donna challenges, stepping closer. The rest of them close in on her like the very bricks of Stonewall. There's only one way out of the Society and historically, it's been suicide - whether as a result of guilt or fear... or staging, Betty realizes, taking a step back and accidentally colliding with Bret's chest.

"I'm going to get him back," she vows.

"Good. He doesn't need to get his Sheriff Daddy or Serpent friends involved for a prank."

"Not when he has his guardian angel girlfriend," Bret mocks.

"Let's not forget that we've all been each other's guardian angels at some point. We learn from our indiscretions and protect each other from certain consequences. Right, Elizabeth?" Donna challenged, her blue eyes flashing like neon lights by the water in a harsh reminder of Betty's punishment. They know things about Jughead and the Serpents, too, from essays so vivid that they blend the lines between reality and fiction. "Bret? Do you forgive her for her outburst? We wouldn't want her little slip to ruin her chances at a college education, nor her boyfriend's."

" _She_ wouldn't want that," he muses, looking down on her. "I don't know. I'm trying to imagine the fun times we could have at Yale together and I'm drawing a blank. What would sweeten that scenario?"

"I'm sure I can think of something." Betty gives him her most lethal smile, her stomach lurching when it's mirrored back at her on all sides.

Jughead's packing when she gets to his room with her first aid kit, his posture tense, the sunken hollows under his eyes nearly black like soot.

"Jughead, I'm sorry about what happened. Let me–"

"Help?" The disgust in his tone doesn't surprise her.

A knot tightens in her chest as she moves closer and he avoids her gaze, shoveling his clothes aside to make room for more in his bag. A switchblade lays open on the nightstand.

""You're feeling a lot of things, and safe isn't one of them," she says softly.

Scoffing in recognition of his own work, Jughead shakes his head. "Are you one of them?"

"I don't know," she admits, wiping her cheek, the salt from her tears stinging her dry, tired pores. "There's only one way out, Jughead, and it's hard coming to terms with it."

Incredulous, he turns to her, not understanding what she means, yet, because her eyes are downcast and he can't see the decision weighing heavy on her soul. "You tempted me with this sense of philosophic community, with _us_ , and then... it's all just a trap to make me a toy for the tyrants of this world?"

"You're not a toy," she insists, setting the first aid kit onto his desk. "And it was never a trap! Not on my end."

"You're using me for sex, Chipping is probably hoarding our ideas for the publishers, and I don't know _what_ I'm supposed to be for the likes of Bret. Some kind of practice nemesis or an ego check?"

Her soul feels heavy as she collapses onto his bed, knees unevenly pushed together, ankles out. "Using you for sex?" Is their relationship so easily broken when compared to the rest of this? Bubbles fill her mind, heat cracking through her ribs. Elbows jabbing into her knees, she catches her face in her hands and weeps with abandon until he falls quiet and moves to her, stroking her hair like the lover she knows and needs.

Eventually, the darkness recedes and he murmurs, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I'm just... scared and angry." And hungry, she'd bet. "After last night, I short-circuited. We aren't using each other for sex. It's more than that. It's always been more than that."

She pushes her forehead into his abdomen, nails cleaving through his t-shirt to the warmth of his belly, wishing she could sate him. "I was selfish, bringing you here. My affections compromised what I thought would be a manageable and beneficial place where we could nurture that spark that makes you so special. I thought I could protect you. I thought I could make things better." As she turns away, her tears smear in streaks against his clothes, scraping her skin. "I was wrong."

"Betty," Jughead starts, kneeling. But what else is there to say? He takes her hands and looks into her eyes as a sad, lost boy. She could never leave him. "You changed my world. You can change it, again."

She could. "Would you still love me if I did something terrible?" she whispers.

"I don't think I could stop."

Nodding, she cups his cheek, brushing the bags under his eyes, watching his pupils twist to let more of her in as his hands slide up the outside of her thighs, pulling her hips closer to the edge of the bed.

"Come with me," he begs. "It won't be glamorous and we might get blackballed from some major publishing houses and Ivy League bullshit, but we'll be free. Why stay, battling these twisted tyrants with our minds and souls, our passions and perversions that they could never begin to understand?"

"We're meant to be together, Jughead. But there's a price for leaving and they've already threatened that more than you or I will have to pay it. For now, I have to stay." Pain flickers in his eyes like a candle fading in the cold until she draws him close for a kiss, savoring his cracked lips and strong soul. 

He wraps his arms around her waist, tugging her until her thighs are splayed against his chest. There's something about his tongue combined with his teeth that hooks into her heart, making her moan for the loss of what this would be on the daily. They end up not-quite fucking before he lets her stitch him up. Washing his hair and sewing him back together calms her raging mind. They're healing.

After they eat, they rest, his bag lurking half-packed on the nightstand like a blackout curtain ready to fall on the light in her life, his furniture in front of the door so no one barges in while they lay together. She tries to avoid telling him what she's thinking, but he seems to sense it, his resolve hardening when she insists he doesn't need to risk any more than he has. "If we're doing it, we need to plant the seeds, Betts."

"You don't have to do anything, Jug. I'm the one who got you into this mess. I'm the one who has to get you out of it."

Ticking her chin up with the crook of his finger, Jughead raises an eyebrow. "But who will absolve you of guilt if I'm not around to give you your praises and punishments?" An electric thrill starts in her toes, working its way up her spine as he sucks and bites down her skin, his hand encasing her throat and squeezing as if to remind her how much he loves her verbal affirmations. Moaning, indulgent, she closes her eyes and prays for salvation.

~~~

Venom at the ready, she can barely catch her breath as her and Jughead hurry down the hall.

“You sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

Jughead grabs her behind the neck and pushes her into the wall with his whole body, claiming her with open-mouthed adoration. As tempting as it is to give in, to hike her legs up on either side of him and let him fuck the demons out of her twisted soul, she has bigger plans for them, plans that have taken them weeks of hard work.

She anchors her hands in the base of his hair, under his beanie. “You ready for your surprise?”

“You know I am.” Jughead’s eyes glint with appreciation, his thumbs already massaging her hips.

She leans up for a kiss, savoring the way his broad shoulders block out the meager lighting. As they deepen the embrace, fueling their foreplay, Betty reaches behind her and shoves the door open. They fall into the soft glow of darkness. It feels alive because it is.

“Surprise,” Bret mocks from within.

Jughead grimaces and he automatically straightens, pulling her to his side like the fierce warrior that he is.

“It’s okay, Juggie.” She rubs his arm, communicating as coyly as she can with the rest of the Society watching. They’re in black, each of them holding a chalice with their liquor of choice. The room smells, the alcohol poured out in an "S" on the floor, just like she requested.

“What is this?” Jughead asks impatiently.

“It’s your initiation.”

He turns to her, his eyes shining in the darkness. The silent question, “Are you sure?”

She nods subtly. There’s no doubt that society needs him, needs both of them. She’s gone down every path in her mind, reasoned what would happen if he went into their fold and if she stayed in it with him. As it is, the Society wants to destroy his association with the world the same way they tried to drown hers. Tonight is a necessary evil to get into a position to make real, positive changes.

“What kind of initiation?” Jughead asks carefully, subtly guarding her against everyone else.

“You’ll like this, Forsythe. It’s a lot less painful than your gang initiation.” Bret raises his chalice like this ritual a toast to society instead of a mockery of it. “The world is at your fingertips. All you have to do is drink.”

“How do I know it isn’t laced with sedatives?” Jughead challenges, sauntering up to Bret. He's learned enough of their sordid history to have solid backing for his novels and introduction to Society.

Bret chuckles good-naturedly, singing a different tune since Jughead's jabs had edged on charming instead of challenging while she and Jughead planted their seeds of carnage. “Despite all the jabs we’ve thrown at each other throughout the year, I just want to say that it’d be an honor to serve alongside you, should you choose to join us.”

Betty squeezes Jughead’s hand so he looks at her. “You don’t have to do this,” she reminds him.

“I trust us.” He hugs her tightly enough to be a second skin. Their heartbeats feel like one strong pulse, her fingers molded to his back like moving ribs meant to protect him. Dew pricks at her eyes, so she turns her head to bury tears against his chest.

They'd survived before this. Now, they were going to live.

He presses a hot kiss to her forehead before releasing the embrace. “You have some chalices to fill, don’t you, Betty?”

Hands folded behind her back, she walks away with the prim alertness of the way his eyes linger, the familiar tingle of domination and submission bubbling in her veins.

No one has taken a sip, yet, not wanting to be sacrilegious to the ceremony now that they're all "partners." Betty pours out two goblets and gives Jughead his.

"This is it," she says, smiling through chattering teeth. Adrenaline shimmies through her nerve endings as she raises her cup.

"To Yale," Bret cheers.

Donna smirks without a trace of humor, warning them even now with a toast, "To guardian angels.

"To ambition-" "And to the future," Joan and Jonathan add.

"To Mr. Jones," says Mr. Chipping.

"To the Prince," Betty whispers, grinning into her cup as Jughead's eyes glint.

"To Society," he toasts back, kneading the spot just on Betty's shoulder where tension permanently seems to sit. Licking her lips, Betty lurks at the edge of her cup, watching everyone besides her and Jughead gulp down the toast and chat in self-congratulations at "breaking in" the Serpent Prince and the Press Darling.

Jughead draws her away from the circle, murmuring, "Good girl," low in her ear, lifting his chin to ask, "What's next?"

"Now, we do whatever we want." Bret chuckles. "We're untouchable." He takes another sip in a toast to his immortality and the irony isn't lost on either of them. Betty's heart races as she tries to take in smaller details for Jughead's eventual novel on the subject, though her testimony is just rehearsed enough to be believable. They've even discussed appropriate use of the terms "Jonestown" and "drinking the kool-aid" when referencing the incident because she knows how much Jughead appreciates irony.

Joan starts to cough, then Jonathan retches. In the madness, Bret panics. "You!" he cries, lifting his cup above his head like he's about to spike it at Jughead, then shifts his aim to Betty's face.

"Don't you fucking touch her," Jughead spits, shoving Bret so hard that he falls to the floor, too dizzy to get up.

"Jughead," Betty whispers, reaching for him, and they're drawn together again, as they should be.

Chipping stumbles against the wall and starts mumbling a prayer, the goblets clattering to the floor. All of this is more than she expected. Betty turns away, nausea rolling in her stomach for a different reason than it sits in theirs. Jughead presses his lips to her hair, holding her close as this world falls apart around them, taking charge by calling the local sheriff, his father.

Donna's the only one who tries to leave the room, but she doesn't make it far.

"To guardian angels," Betty says quietly against Jughead's chest. It feels tacky and triumphant, Jughead's chuckle warm on her neck.

"Is my snark rubbing off on you?" Soft ear kisses turn to nibbles.

"What can I say? You've corrupted me. Your knight in plaid armor is now a killer. How do you feel about that?" It's hard for her to process whatever kind of self-preservation is keeping her outlook bright. Undoubtedly, the fact that Jughead's steady heartbeat thrums under her fingertips is a big part of that and she can't imagine going through with it without him. She twists her hands in his suspenders to accompany their irrecoverably twisted souls.

"Well, you know what they say," he muses, kissing her lips, eyes hooded and dark. "The couple that slays together stays together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this ending literally eight different ways so I hope y'all found it satisfactory. We got some Heathers vibes by the end but rest assured they aren't about to go on a murder spree. This was an investment in the universe - one where their loved ones will be safe from a lifetime of threats. Anyway, who else died and went to heaven (or the other place) when Jughead pulled on Betty's ponytail and squeezed her throat talking about "perversions" just before a kiss? THAT IS THE STUFF MY DREAMS ARE MADE OF. Bless 4x19 for those moments and bless my friends for listening to me fiddle with this fic for so long. Feel free to rant at me in return lol

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to those who've helped with this, especially [@theheavycrown](theheavycrown.tumblr.com) and [ @bettycooper](bettycooper.tumblr.com) for cheerleading and gif-making. If you like stalker/obsessive tales, you might enjoy [this book series.](https://www.amazon.com/Evie-Bennet/e/B08547JJ9Z/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1) You're always welcome to tumble with me [@lovedinapastlife](lovedinapastlife.tumblr.com) to tell me what delicious darkness is poking in your brain in good ways, especially with bughead! If you enjoyed and would be so kind, I treasure your thoughts and reactions in comments. The finale needs some finesse but I'll update it as soon as I can. Be well. Love bughead. Can we also talk about how fun Bret is as a villain and how great Bughead looks in plaid school uniforms? Because I am ALL about that.


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